My Big Fat Fake Wedding

by Landish, Lauren

  Okay, well good news isn’t quite the word I’d use for this, but dammit, I’m going to try and see this from Mom’s point of view.

  “Hey, honey, I was just about to call you. What’s up?” Mom asks. Even as she asks, she sounds distracted, but I dive in to get this over with.

  “There’s a charity event, and Mrs. Andrews was hoping to turn it into a family affair to give everyone a chance to meet before the wedding.”

  “Really?” Mom asks before her voice fades and she yells from a distance, “Yes, Mama! I’m telling her now! I know I need to get to work!”

  “What’s going on, Mom?” I ask, confused. She should be at work, but it sounds like she’s at Nana’s. Terror shoots through me. “Oh, God, is Papa okay?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, the old goat is fine. It’s just that . . .” she sighs, and I know she’s only half talking to me because I can hear her shuffling and moving around on her end of the line. “Three of your cousins are scheduled to arrive today. You know . . . Vanessa, Estella, and Marissa?”

  “Which Marissa?” I ask, grinning. There are a lot of Ms in my family.

  “The Triplets. They just finished their first year of college,” Mom replies. “Which is why I’m heading out now. Seems they found one of those last-minute ticket deals, so they’re coming in a few days early for the wedding. I don’t begrudge the tight budget and bargain hunting. Really, I’m just glad they can come, but . . .” her voice drops, and I wonder if Nana’s in the same room with her. “I’m glad they’re staying with Mama so I don’t have to listen to their constant singing.”

  “That’s great, Mom. I’m glad they’re coming too,” I say, also relieved that they’re staying with Nana. Being college students means they’re broke as a joke, I’m sure, so it’s a real gift that they’re coming for the big family affair of my wedding. And I know they want to see Papa one last time. But I’ve heard them sing, though it was years ago, and Little Mix doesn’t have to worry about the triplets taking over their sales, that’s for sure.

  “That’s what I was going to call you about, Violet. They land in about ninety minutes, and I have got to go work. If I call out today, my boss is going to crap himself.”

  I can hear the direction she’s going with this and glance down to my planner’s to-do list and appointments. Another dress shop is coming by, I need to finalize the velvet for Ms. Montgomery’s drapes and prepare for the next room in her never-ending renovation, order Ross’s couch for his office, and now I need to get ready for this gala. I pencil that in and scribble a Post-It note to remind myself to fill Archie in when he gets here.

  “Okay, I’ll send a car to pick up the triplets. Don’t worry, Mom.” There. See? I can do it all and not miss a beat.

  “Violet,” Mom draws out my name in disappointment. “You cannot send an impersonal car to pick up your family. That would be disrespectful. You need to go pick them up, please?”

  That should be a question. We both know full-well that’s it’s not. It’s an order, a directive I can’t and won’t ignore.

  I sigh, drawing an arrow through the couch ordering and moving it to tomorrow. Ross won’t mind, not when he’s the one who added the gala to my to-do list, anyway. “Fine, I’ll get the triplets and take them to Nana’s. What’s their plan from there? Do I need to play hostess with the mostest?” I pray that’s not what Mom wants me to do.

  I hear her car start up, and she switches me over to the speakerphone. “No, nothing like that. Just pick them up, go to Nana’s and politely excuse yourself for wedding things. They’ll understand. Beyond the wedding, they’re mostly here for sightseeing, free food, and laundry services. Nana will take good care of them and enjoy doing it.”

  “Okay, I’m on it.”

  “I’ve got to go, baby girl. Can’t drive and talk, you know. Can you text me the information about this charity event thing Kimberly wants us to go to? I’m happy to do whatever you need me to do, Violet. I’m just so proud of you.” There’s a moment of hitched breathing, but then she lets out a big exhale. “Sorry, I really have to go. Love you, bye!”

  And with a click, she’s gone. “Fuck me!”

  “Intriguing, Boss Bitch, but I think that job’s already taken,” Archie says, sticking his head in my door. “What’s up?”

  I give him the full rundown on everything’s that’s happened as he takes notes, and then I summarize. “I need you to go onsite and handle the ballroom for a few hours,” I tell him, grabbing my purse and keys. “Apparently, I’ve gotta pick up some cousins and drop them at Nana’s. I’ll text my mom about the charity gala, and achieve world peace, which would probably be easier than integrating my family and Ross’s. Then I need to pull off the miracle of finding the right wedding dress. So my, you know, actual career I need to leave in your capable, manicured hands.”

  Archie checks out his black-polished, stubbed nails, humming. “Speaking of which, I really do need to take some time off for a mani-pedi—”

  “You’d better be joking.”

  Archie grins and smacks me on the hip. “Of course I am. Go. Chill the fuck out. I got this shit.” He looks cool as a cucumber, reclining back in my guest chair with one booted ankle resting on his other knee. “Oh, I’ll coordinate with Jeeves to get you and your family all scheduled for a fluff and polish before the gala.”

  I blink, his words taking a moment to sink in. “His name is Karl, Archie. He’s the Andrews’ butler. Butler? Is that the right word now? Assistant? Home Manager?”

  Archie’s eyes twinkle as he drolly says, “House elf? Dobby is free. Master gave Dobby a sock.” The high-pitched squeal and fake British accent sound odd out of his mouth, which only makes me grin more.

  “Thanks, I needed that. You really are the best!” I lay a quick kiss on his cheek and then head for the door. “Oh, Abi told me about your suit. It sounds awesome! Can’t wait to see it.”

  At least the drive out to the airport is easy. Traffic’s pretty good at this time of day, and I’m even able to sit in the baggage pickup lounge for twenty minutes, typing out emails and sending them.

  I just hit Send on my message to Mom, giving her the details of the Gala and letting her know that Karl and/or Archie will be in touch with our appointment times to get ready, when I’m interrupted by a harmonic squeal. “Violet!”

  I look up as Estella, Vanessa, and Marissa come up, practically bouncing along and making a young guy who’s wheeling his bag out the door stumble as he does a legitimate triple-take. I’ll give it to the triplets . . . they’re lookers, all of them.

  “It’s been too long,” I tell them honestly, group hugging and exchanging cheek kisses all around. “What, ten years, at least?”

  “At least!” Marissa says with a grin. “You look great, Vi. Damn, girl, I hope your man likes boobs!”

  Uhm, wow. That was loud, judging by the looks of the folks around the baggage area. I forgot just how bold and brash and unfiltered my extended family can be. My blush answers everything for them, and Estella laughs.

  “Just messing with you, girl. Last time I saw you, you were looking a bit twiggy. Good to see that those puberty glow-ups really do happen to us mere mortals because you look great! It really is good to see you! I’ve been stuck indoors too much between studying, practicing, and performing. In fact, what is that burning ball of fire in the sky, anyway?” Marissa holds her hands in front of her face, cringing away from the sunlight coming in the airport windows.

  “Whatever,” Estella teases. “You’ve just been spending too much time with Mark Brierson on top of you to see the sun.” Vanessa holds up a fist which Estella bumps back. They even do the finger-waggle explosion thing, and I suddenly feel ridiculously old.

  “Green with envy is not your color, Sis,” Marissa taunts back, and all three of them devolve into silly giggles.

  We get their bags loaded, and they pile in. Driving back to Nana and Papa’s, they fill me in on college life and trying to get noticed for their singing, but it’s hard to keep
all the details in place.

  I mean, they are triplets, and while not identical, they’re close enough that I have a hard time telling them apart after ten years of not hanging out together. It’s especially hard because they tend to talk over each other constantly and finish each other’s sentences.

  “So, tell us about your man,” Vanessa says. “Do you love him?”

  “Is he hot?”

  “Is he loaded?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” I answer easily, laughing.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Estella cheers, almost punching the roof of my car in her excitement. “Girl, we are so happy for you! We were all getting nervous that you were never going to get married, or if you did, it wouldn’t be in time.” Her eyes widen, “I mean, shit . . . sorry. It’s just . . . you know how old school the family is, and you’ve always been the closest to Papa, his favorite. I’m glad he’s going to walk you down the aisle.”

  “It’s a dream come true,” I agree, but I feel like shit saying it. Tack three more onto the list of people Ross and I are lying to. It’s enough to make me certain that Lucifer’s warming up my own little corner of hell.

  We reach Nana’s house, and as soon as I pull up, the door opens with Nana and Sofia and Papa all coming out to hug the girls, making a huge fuss. “Oh, babies, you’ve gotten so grown, so beautiful!” Papa says, smiling hugely. “A vision for this old man.”

  “Sing for us!” Aunt Sofia demands as if they’re performing bears for her entertainment, but her smile softens the order. “I’ve been hearing so much about your talent, but I can’t use the damn YouTube properly!”

  The triplets smile, obviously basking in the praise, though Vanessa blushes as she answers. “Uhm, most of our songs are . . . you know, sort of mature?”

  “And what am I, the Mickey Mouse Club?” Sofia asks, grinning. “What, you think your generation’s the first to discover songs about your hoo-hah? Child, I know a few Italian songs that would make that Cardi B blush!”

  The triplets laugh, knowing they’re not going to get out of doing a little bit. “Okay,” Estella finally says, looking at her sisters. “This is one of our standards. It’s a little old and clean because I do not want to think of your old lady hoo-ha, Aunt Sofia, but maybe you know it.”

  The girls start humming, and I’m shocked at how much they’ve improved. Maybe it’s reaching maturity, maybe it’s just that they understand the emotions behind the lyrics, but as Estella sings a contralto lead at first before Vanessa and Marissa join in with alto and soprano for a new spin on Fly Me To The Moon, I’d say Frank Sinatra would be proud.

  “Whoo, you girls had better save that for the wedding!” Nana says. “You girls do that, Violet here’s going to have a bun in her oven by Sunday night!” She sways her hips so far left and right, I’m surprised she doesn’t pop one out of socket, but Papa doesn’t seem to mind because he’s watching transfixed. I can’t decide if that’s gross or sweet.

  Wait, what? Singing at the wedding. “Nana—”

  “We’d love to! It’ll be our gift to you and Ross!” Vanessa exclaims, grinning. “Oh, Vi, thank you!”

  I know what I should do. I should just say no. I should say we’ve hired someone. I should say that Morgan Andrews goes into violent flashbacks if he hears anything but acoustic smooth jazz, PTSD from a torrid youth spent in the seventies.

  Instead, I clear my throat. “Maybe a song or two?” It’s the only way to corral this and not look like a bitch.

  Please say you can’t, please say you can’t, please—

  “We’ll give you a list of choices that’d be perfect, and you can pick, and then just point us in the direction of the mics,” Marissa says with a laugh.

  Shit.

  Guess I’ll add that to my to-do list . . . telling Ross and the wedding planner and then picking a song. Or two?

  “Hey, Nana,” I say, changing the subject before the triplets start auditioning songs right here and now. “Ross’s mom extended an invitation for a charity gala at their estate tomorrow night. I sent Mom a text about it, but it’s for us all.”

  “A bake sale!” Nana says, her eyes twinkling as she totally misses the point. “Perfect! Sofia and I can make cannoli. They did great at the last charity sale at the church, and—”

  “No, no, Nana, it’s not like that!” I half yell before I jerk myself back. “It’s a . . . well, I guess you could say a ball. Like a super-fancy thing. It’ll be catered. You don’t have to cook anything, but we’ll need to get you ready. Hair, makeup, and a dress. Archie is getting everything arranged for us to have a day out tomorrow, okay?”

  She claps her hands and then looks at Sofia, whose eyes are wide and bright. “A fancy ball? Like we’re Cinderella?”

  Sofia scoffs. “You think you’re Cinderella? Guess that makes me the evil sister? Pshaw, I don’t think so.”

  Nana grins. “Or . . . since it’s pretend, we can both be Cinderella?”

  Some agreement must be silently reached between the two of them because they begin dancing and twirling around the kitchen. I’m not sure who’s leading who, but I have a bigger concern as they bump into the refrigerator.

  “Could you two knock it off? You’re going to break a hip if you keep it up in here. There’s no room for dancing,” I say, half-scolding and half-laughing at their antics.

  Papa laughs hard enough that it makes him cough a bit, but he manages to choke out, “I’ve danced Angela around this kitchen more times than I can count. She’s just fine. As for that one over there” —he points at Sofia— “she’s trouble no matter where she is.”

  They glare at each other, but it’s good-naturedly.

  Papa turns to me. “Violet, dear, I’d love to attend this gala with you, but I just don’t know that I can get this old body to dance the night away two weekends in a row. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather save what soft-stepping I’ve got for your wedding.” He looks at me so sweetly, love radiating from his eyes to mine.

  Guilt slams into me, but that’s what I’m doing all of this for. To give this man, the only father figure I’ve ever known, the dream he’s always wanted. The dream I’ve always wanted too.

  “Of course, Papa. Stay home and rest. You can meet the Andrewses next weekend at the wedding,” I tell him, patting his hand.

  * * *

  Mom holds up her mimosa, the one I made sure was more orange juice than champagne, and toasts. “To my baby girl. It might have taken you a while, but I think good things comes to those who wait. And Ross is a very good thing.” She giggles as she sips at the drink, but the oddly girly quality to her speech has me thinking that maybe even the weak version of her drink is too strong. I pass her another mini quiche and then hold my own up, cheering with them so she’ll down some protein in the form of egg and bacon yumminess.

  “Thank you, Mom. Ross is great,” I agree.

  The dress shop assistants—yes, there are two of them for our small group—swirl back in with a rolling rack of dresses, sections separated by plastic tags with our names written on them. They carefully carry the dresses into fitting rooms and then turn to us with congenial smiles.

  “Ready?” Britnay asks. That’s not a typo or a misspeak. She’d told us quite clearly that her name wasn’t the usual Brittney, ‘No Brittney bitch jokes here,’ she’d pleaded, but ‘Brit-nay’ with the long a sound. My mom apparently wanted me to suffer,’ she’d said with a shrug and a wink.

  As they roll call each of us, and I say a silent thanks for my rather unusual but normal name, we enter our assigned rooms. “Look through the ones we’ve selected and choose your favorite. We’ll have everyone come out at once, like a show and tell moment. We’re happy to help with any buttons or zippers.” She looks to Nana and Aunt Sofia, obviously thinking they might need a little assistance.

  I appreciate the top-notch level of customer service, especially since neither Britnay nor her assistant, whose name I never caught because I was so stuck on Britnay’s, are stuffy and formal. Their
casualness makes this whirlwind seem not-so-crazy.

  We spend the next hour trying on dresses and coming out to see each other. Estella, who volunteered to stay home with Papa and doesn’t need a dress, gives critique and applause as we swish in front of the mirror.

  Finally, I try on a beautiful red number. It’s short, which I definitely didn’t expect for a gala, but Britnay assures me that it’s very on-point for the season with the heat coming in for the summer.

  When I step out, my eyes jump to everyone else. We all look so fancy! “I love that one, Mom!” I tell her truthfully and smile as she turns this way and that, checking herself out in the mirror.

  “I think I’m done,” she says happily.

  I look to the mirror, checking myself out. “I don’t know about this one. It’s a lot of leg and so bright.” I turn sideways, pushing the small pooch of my belly out and lamenting, “I need to cut back on the pasta before the wedding.”

  Britnay chuckles. “No need to get that drastic, dear. I can help with that.” She disappears for a moment and returns with a swatch of nude spandex. “Put this on.”

  I pop back into the fitting room and take the red dress off, hanging it up temporarily. I eye the spandex, which looks ridiculously small. “Uhm, Britnay? Are you sure this is my size? It’s literally the width of my thigh, not my waist.”

  Her affirmative answer doesn’t reassure me in the least. “Yes, step into it and pull it up a little at a time, working up your left leg an inch, then right, back and forth. Do you need me to come in and help?”

  That sounds like the embarrassment of the century, so I decline and take a deep breath, telling myself that I can do this. I survived the corsets for the wedding dresses. I can survive this.

  I step into the undergarment, and I’m doing okay until it’s mid-thigh, at which point I suddenly become hilariously knock-kneed. With my knees pressed together, my hips look ginormous compared to the tiny opening I’m trying to squeeze them into. I grunt and jump a bit, instinctively wishing that gravity would somehow make the too-much of me slip into the too-little of the spandex. To no one’s surprise, especially not physics, it doesn’t work that way.